how do fools fall in love
by bluepianos
Summary: Honestly, it's not that hard. [Mature]


**Words**: 1,174  
**Disclaimer**: Unfortunately, no.  
**Notes**: I really enjoy writing those moments where Person A in an OTP realises they love Person B and I figure it's about time this fandom got something a little sexier than usual. (But omg I am such a prude, so I couldn't even make it past 1,200 words.) Just picture Puck and Sabrina but like 5 years older or something.

**Warning**: Yeah, yeah, mature warning, little bit o' swears, references of a sexual nature, get outta here if you're 12-years-old or under and go back to Spongebob or whatever it is kids watch these days.

**how do fools fall in love?**

How do fools fall in love?

Do they take their time? Is it an absolutely sublime experience? Do they relish the frustrated impatience their object of affection has to suffer? Is it easy, or is it quite difficult, learning every bend, every crease, and every detail of her body and her mind?

It's all of the above, and more than he expected - far better than he ever expected. How do fools fall in love? First of all, they grow up. They grow up and grow into their own bones and hands and feet. They start taking their body seriously and start taking into account that if they take that shower fast enough, the feeling of soap and shampoo isn't all that bad. They endure the torture of cracking voices, poorly placed pimples, and misplaced feelings, at least for a few years, and finally, sometime around the age of seventeen or eighteen, their bodies start feeling less like overlarge containers and more like well-oiled vehicles. They lose the pranking tendencies and start up far less time-consuming methods of annoyance: merciless public flirting, for one. After all, a fool is still a fool, even if he grows up.

And do they realise at some point that they're getting themselves into a whole lot of trouble, an awful lot of heartbreak, and a deliciously rich and colourful future with their object of affection? They do, but fools often have terrible timing, and by the time they realise that _shit son, you're whipped_, it's already far too late and her shirt is three-fourths of the way unbuttoned, she's breathing a lot faster than normal, her hands are clammy and her fingers are trembling. In these cases, a fool does his best to cater to her while at the same time, soak up her scent, the vibrations of her throat, the warm flush of her skin, and the coolness of her fingertips on his chest. Like the average fool, he won't be completely aware of his current location nor how he got there in the first place, but bless his soul because he'll be focused enough to lather her with all of his attention and as many layers of lust and love as he has to offer.

(He only wishes it'll be enough.)

It's different for all fools, but for this one, his epiphany point is the first time she whimpers audibly. He hadn't been aware of his actions; he'd been thinking mostly with his hormones and his hands and his tongue and the other body parts that are more essential than the brain in these situations. His fingers had inched their way down to her pelvis – of their own accord, he has no idea how they got there, honestly – and his palm had brushed against the most tender area of her body through the thin cloth of her underwear, and she had whimpered – no, she had _whined_, and it had been breathy, surprised, and a strange mix of dirty and innocent and he'd recoiled, pulling his hand away quickly. What a fool.

But he takes the moment to rear back, prop himself over her and drink in the sight of her. He does this constantly; he likes to gaze upon her and commit her image to his memory. He likes to revere her; to treat her like a work of art - fragile but with a solid, concrete foundation - or like a goddess, worthy of more than his affections and praise. More than him. Her hair is so long now, almost passing the small of her back, and it cascades in soft, yellow waves against her face, across her collar bones, and tumbles off the swell of her breasts, framing her in an iridescent outline of pale gold.

She is the best thing that could have happened to him.

The sounds of her (sighing, shuffling, inhaling) shake him out of his reverie and he's bombarded by this gut wrenching feeling that swarms at his chest, pulling him to lean down and place his lips on her sternum, keeping them there and darting his tongue out to taste her. It's a test, because he's a fool, and he can't bring himself to ask her instead. The reaction he gets is almost sinful; she sucks in a breath, tilts her head back in her haze and reaches down to thread her fingers in his hair, keeping him right there, and neither of them mind at all that they'll take this slowly.

He trails his tongue and his lips to her breast and suckles there before regretfully pulling away, but he hushes her next whimper by capturing her bottom lip with his, and she follows his lead, cupping his chin and curling her fingers to sink her fingertips into the skin there. When he can no longer fight the need to breathe, he breaks away with an obscene sound and buries his face in her neck, his forearms trembling to hold his weight above her. He doesn't want to overwhelm or suffocate her. He doesn't want to hurt her. Each puff of air washes her with a fresh new wave of excitement but she's learned that loving this particular fool meant being patient, and she's content to hold him and wait for him. He knows her patience well. He's familiar with her understanding and her empathy. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

His mouth has always gone off before his mind could catch up, so he tells her that he thinks he loves her against her jaw. A split second passes before she snorts lightly – just a soft puff of air – and, not missing a beat, squeezes his shoulders, teasing him that he should check to make sure. So he says it again, but he takes out the "I think" part and brushes his lips against her neck instead, even daring to press his teeth against her soft skin and that silences her enough so he can resume his ministrations. He's in love and he has no idea what that entails, but he has a very good idea of who he's holding and how he can show her that he thinks she deserves the moon and the stars and everything he can't give but can try.

How do fools fall in love?

They stumble - on their words and on bumps along the way. They bruise - some fools (like this one) have to physically bruise and nurse physical wounds, while others are lucky to only have to deal with the black and blue memories scarred on their heart. But all fools fall in love when they least expect it. Like him: he never sees it coming and before he knows it, he's drawing meaningless patterns on her abdomen and tracing nonexistent constellations on the blemishes of her skin with his fingertips. He whispers nonsense into her ear, like the fool he is, but she reacts - she always reacts, and that's the reason why he thinks, maybe she feels exactly the same way.

Maybe he's not the only fool.

_fin_


End file.
